Let's Play A Game
by Joncal
Summary: Sarah and her brother Michael are home alone when they are visited by a handsome, mysterious stranger. But are he and his friend as harmless as they seem? Some language. Not my best, but I promise that it will get better. NEW CHAPTER UP.
1. My Name Is Paul

**KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.**

_Just stay in bed, _Sarah commanded herself. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, and let out a yawn. Glancing at the clock, she discovered it was a quarter past eight. The seventeen year-old let out an angry groan and jerked the covers over her head.

The knocking persisted, this time louder. _Just ignore it, _Sarah told herself, trying her best to drift back off to sleep. **KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! **"Somebody get the door," Michael, her little brother, called out groggily from his room down the hall.

**KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!**

"Sarah, please get that!"

"Fuck you, Michael! Get it yourself. I'm sick."

**KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!**

"Just get it, Sarah."

"Alright, fine!"

The teen slumped to her feet. She then quickly ran a brush through her messy black hair before struggling into the fuzzy pink bathrobe her mother had purchased for her almost a year ago. Sarah made her way out into the hallway, and promptly slipped on her brother's baseball glove. "Oh!" She lost her footing and tumbled to the carpet. Her elbow exploded in fresh pain. "You need to pick your shit up!" With a frustrated grunt she heaved the leather glove at Michael's door. It connected solidly with a low 'thunk'.

"Little asshole," she muttered under her breath. Downstairs, the knocking grew louder. "I'm coming!" she cried.

Standing at the door, much to her surprise, was a handsome and well-bred young man. _Wow. He's cute. _"Sorry to bother you so early," he began. He was soft-spoken. "Um, my name is Peter, and I live across the lake. Mrs. Culver sent me. She ran out of eggs. Would you happen to have some that she could borrow?"

He wore black Vans, with matching black golf shorts, and white short-sleeved Polo shirt with white golf gloves. His dirty blond hair was long and untidy. His face was round, boyish, and cute. But his most striking feature was his eyes: dark and intense.

"Um, yeah. I think. How many does she need?"

"Three."

"Okay, hold on a sec."

"Thank you very much," Peter murmured shyly.

Sarah disappeared into her family's cramped kitchen, and opened the fridge. _Mom really needs to go shopping, _she thought, her eyes scanning the near-empty shelves. A tub of butter. A gallon of milk. Some cans of Coke. But that was it. No eggs.

"Are you out of eggs?" Peter asked loudly. He now lingered in the kitchen doorway.

"Yeah. My mom hasn't gone shopping yet. Tell Mrs. Culver I'm sorry, okay?"

Peter looked puzzled. "Are you sure?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked if you -"

"Yeah. I'm sure. Now can you please go?"

"Oh," Peter said, blushing furiously. "That . . . that was very rude of me. I should have taken your word. I'm sorry I had to bother you so _early_."

"It's okay. It was nice meeting you We should hang out sometime, if you want."

Peter grinned. "Okay. I would enjoy that."

"Um, shouldn't you be getting back to Mrs. Culver now?"

Peter blushed furiously. _Why are you being so hard on him? He's gonna think you're a bitch. Cool it._

"Yeah, I suppose. Sorry."

"It's okay. I'm just a little tired."

Peter nodded. "I understand."

"Tubby, did you get the eggs?"

Sarah froze. _Another one? But . . . . . wasn't Peter alone when I answered the door?_

Peter cocked his head in the direction of the second voice. "No. She said she was out."

The voice belonged to a handsome, tall young man, who looked about a year older than Peter.

"I'm Paul," the cute boy said, introducing himself.


	2. Michael

_Bang!_

Michael slowly opened his eyes. His head throbbed with a dull but persistent pain. He shivered and tugged the blanket up to his chin. Michael had spent half a car ride and three vacation days stricken with the flu. He had fallen into a deep and sluggish sleep the other night, around the same time his sister Sarah began running a fever. Like most eleven year-old boys, he would rather much be outside playing baseball or cooling off in the lake, but for now he was confined to his bedroom. At least until he was over the sickness.

He hacked dryly. For a moment he thought about calling out for his sister to bring him a glass of water, but decided not to get on her bad side. Plus, she would probalby still be asleep. Michael glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Yep. Sarah wouldn't be up for another two hours or so. _Shit. Oh well. I'll just get it myself._

Michael found himself wondering what that 'bang' had been.

He slipped into a fresh sweater, still battling a terrible fever, and shuffled into the hallway. That's when he heard two distinct and unfamiliar voices from downstairs. He thought about calling for his sister, but stopped himself. _What if someone's robbing us? What if they have guns? Holy fucking shit. What am I gonna do?_

Crouching low, he peeked from behind the wooden railing of the stairs, and caught a brief glimpse of two young men in preppy sportswear. "Oh my God," Michael whispered to himself. He began to tremble when he heard his sister blubbering from downstairs, and nearly cried out when he saw her propped up in their father's recliner, arms and legs bound with Duct tape.

_Sarah! Run! Get help!_

Michael returned to his room, tears welling up in his eyes. What was he going to do? He glanced at his window. _I . . . I could climb out and get in the boat. And . . . and then I could go find Uncle Jim. He'll have a phone, and we can call the cops. Yeah. It'll work. _

He slowly tiptoed over to the window, fearing the floorboards would creak and alert the intruders. His plan was easier said then done, as he soon re-discovered his long-forgotten fear of heights. It was only a thirteen foot drop, but to Michael it seemed like a hundred. His mind flashed back to the intruders, and his sister's tear-streaked face. _Grow some balls, _he told himself, heart thudding in his chest.

_Wait. What good are you if you break your ankle trying to jump out the window? Seriously, are you that stupid? Just tie a bed-sheet around your waist, and tie the other end to a bed post. It works all the time._

Easy. Now he just had to scale his way down the side of the house. That shouldn't be too hard. Right?

His entire body trembled as he crawled out the window. He gripped the windowsil, hanging on with all his strength, not wanting to let go. He feared the sheet would tear and he would then plumet to the earth and break his neck.

Michael gulped. Grow some balls.

He slowly began to lower himself. Questions raced through his mind. Who were the intruders that had broken into his home? What did they want? What had they done to his sister? And what were they going to do to _him _if they caught him?

He shivered at the thought.

Suddenly from inside his room: a familiar and dreaded rip.

Michael's sheet tore and he fell seven feet, landing on his back. "Oof!"

His body exploded in fresh pain, and his teeth rattled inside his skull.

He rolled onto his stomach, and struggled to his feet, his mind spinning wildly. _Got to get help._

He broke into a run and headed for the dock. And he probably would have made it if Paul hadn't seen him through the window.

"Hey!"

Michael froze, cocked his head to the side, and discovered a young man jogging towards him. He recognized the man's clothes. He was one of the intruders.

**RUN DIPSHIT. RUN.**

"Don't go Mikey. We're gonna let you and your sister play this really fun game!"

Michael lost his footing, and crashed to the ground in a heap. He was caught.


	3. Cat in the Bag

It was only one in the afternoon, but the temperature was already approaching ninety-three. Paul had been fidgeting uncomfortably for quite some time, and Sarah could see small beads of perspiration gleaming on his handsome face.

He scratched his expensive looking haircut, glanced at Peter, and asked him, rather politely one might add, if he would mind opening a window.

Peter nodded obediently, and rose to his feet. He approached Sarah, whom the boys had tied up hours ago, and inquired: "Um, excuse me, but would you mind if I were to open a window? It's pretty hot in here."

"Go fuck yourself," Sarah spat, her voice strained.

At that moment Paul's gloved hand lashed out and connected solidly with her cheek, which was followed by a loud and almost comical SMACK. "There's no need for that kind of language," Paul said disapprovingly. "Do you want us to put the tape back on? Do you want us to hurt your brother again?"

Blinking away tears, Sarah glanced down at Michael, who lay on his side, bound and gagged with a piece of cloth. He looked back up at her, eyes wide, fearful yet expressionless at the same time. He whimpered softly from behind the ratty wash-rag.

"No . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry," she apologized, a lump forming in her throat.

"Apology accepted," Paul replied, smiling gaily.

"Um, so do you think it would be okay if I opened a window?" Peter repeated. He wiped his forehead.

"Yes, you may."

Michael made a pitiful grunting noise. He was crying.

"Hey, cheer up, buddy," Paul said soothingly. "I know something that'll make you feel better. You wanna play a game?"

Sniffling, followed by silence.

Peter had returned. "Oh, we're going to play the game?" he questioned. He walked over to the sofa, grabbed the boy by his shoulders, and hoisted him to his feet. Michael made little effort to get away, but it wasn't like he would be able to anyways.

Peter plopped down on the loveseat, balancing Michael on his knee, as if he were a little brat about to deliver his Christmas list to the department store pillow-bellied Santa Claus. "Hey, quit crying," Peter ordered, speaking in a stern yet gentle voice. "You're gonna play the Game."

"What's the game?"

Peter smiled.

Paul produced a crinkled, wadded-up Bi-Lo bag and covered the boy's head with it. "You'll like this game. It's called 'Cat in the Bag'."

Michael shrieked hoarsely. He struggled, trying his best to escape and end the Game, but Peter held him firmly. It was no use.

"Stop it!" his sister cried, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. "Stop!"

If only she could move. If only she could fucking _move_.

She thrust herself off the couch in a crazy, sideways motion. Her forehead exploded in a burst of pain. Her vision blurred. Stars danced wildly before her eyes.

She felt weightless, and she was growing extremely lightheaded. The pain was still fresh and furious, and Sarah wasn't sure just what the hell happened. She suspected Paul had struck her again, but as she hit the carpet, she saw the coffee table and realized her mistake. She had bumped her head on it. Something warm and sticky was flowing from the spot where her forehead and the edge of the coffee table had shook hands.

_Shit … why did I move the goddamn coffee table? Mom's always telling me not …_

Her thoughts drifted off, and she found her_self _drifting off into a thick darkness.

* * *

Sarah slowly gained consciousness and was met with a dull, throbbing pain. Disoriented, her mind hazy, she glanced around and wondered why she was in the living room instead of her bed. Her eyes fell on a small puddle of maroon, and everything came back to her.

She whimpered.

_Michael … _oh God_ …_

Craning her neck up, she saw not a soul. "Michael?"

Silence …

Then, whistling. From the hallway. It was Paul.

The tune sounded familiar._ Very _familiar! She couldn't quite place it. It was a slow melody, haunting yet catchy.

"Breaking The Girl"? No fucking way.

Her stomach felt knotted and coiled. Her heart thundered in her chest. The two well-dressed young men stepped into the living room. Michael was not with them.

"Where's Michael?"

"Ah, you're awake. Here, I'll help you up."

"Where the fuck is Michael? What the fuck did you do to him?"

Paul buried his sneaker in Sarah's ribs. There was sharp, fierce explosion of pain that raced all the way from her armpit down to her hip.

She cried out. She began to weep.

"Now, I told you," Paul said, grabbing the duct tape off the table, "there's no need for that kind of language. We're gonna have to punish you now!"

He tore a piece of tape off the roll and sealed her mouth shut. "We really don't like doing this, but you keep forcing us to," Peter said, bending down to his knees. "It hurts a lot more than it hurts you, believe me."

They lifted her off the floor, and Sarah saw what had happened to her brother.

Michael lay on his stomach, arms and legs still bound. The Bi-Lo bag was still covering his face. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that he was dead.

Dead.

_He's dead. Oh God. Oh God._

Her body trembled. Everything seemed dream-like. The intruders, Michael's body, the duct tape covering her mouth …

_This isn't happening. This isn't happening. Wake up. Just wake up and you'll see that this is all a really, _really_ bad dream. You'll wake up and walk out into the hallway and trip on Mike's baseball glove or stub your toe against something. But you'll be safe. There won't be anybody waiting downstairs to tie you up and torture you. You'll see._

She commanded herself to wake up. She couldn't. She wasn't dreaming.

* * *

**So … there you go. Chapter 3! It's short, and it sucks, but who gives a fig? Oh well. Comments would be appreciated **

**Jon**


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